"They have never beaten me," was the smiling answer of Jack.
"Nor must they or any one else beat you," added Mr. Gedney, with a warning shake of his head. "But haven't you brought down any game?"
"Well, I shot a couple of painters on my way home," replied Jack, in the most indifferent manner, as he buried his big sound teeth into a slice of bread and butter.
"Did you kill them both?" asked the mother between her sips of tea.
"Both are so dead that they couldn't be any deader," was the reply of Jack.
"After supper you can tell us about it," said the father, showing no more interest than if they were talking about the "barking" of a couple of squirrels.
Now, brave and cool as was Jack Gedney, he felt some pride in his exploit, for it is not often that one is able to kill two such fierce animals as the American panther without receiving a scratch himself. But he was not the boy to force his story upon his friends, and so he finished his meal, and finally sat down by the broad, cheerful fireplace.
Opposite to him was his father, smoking his pipe, and his mother, having cleared away the supper things, took up her knitting for the evening. The only light came from the blazing logs on the hearth. This was enough to fill the large room, and render a candle or lamp unnecessary. The plain calico curtains were not drawn across the narrow windows, and the latch-string was left hanging outside, so that any one who chose could enter without knocking.
Jack waited until asked by his father to tell how it was he came to kill two "painters." Then he gave the story as it has been given to you.
The mother did not stop her knitting during the narration, nor did the father cease to smoke in his deliberate way, nor ask any question until it was finished. Then he made some natural inquiries, and remarked that he did not see how Jack could have done better than he did.